


Scotch on the Rocks

by slightly_ajar



Series: Stable AU [11]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Past Child Abuse, Stableverse, Underage Drinking, dad!Jack, father/son relationship, hangovers, teen!Mac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25950061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightly_ajar/pseuds/slightly_ajar
Summary: “And at any point during this whole boozy adventure,” Jack asked, getting to the pertinent part of the conversation, “did either of you worry about being underage?”Mac and Bozer spend an evening together doing something they shouldn’t be doing then Mac and Jack deal with the aftermath.set in dickgrysvn's Stablehands + Stable Homes AU and alongside violetvaria’s Stable AU
Series: Stable AU [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491458
Comments: 32
Kudos: 40
Collections: Stable_AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I tip my imaginary hat to dickgrysvn's for being so generous with the AU she created and violetvaria’s for being my long distance Stable buddy xxx

“Campfire!” Jack yelled from the middle of the living room. 

“What?” Mac’s head appeared around the door, “Something’s on fire?” 

“No, nothing’s burnin’, son.” Jack held up his hands, “Don’t panic, it’s a new thing I’m trying.” 

The worried creases lining Mac’s forehead smoothed away. “Okay.” He walked into the living room. “What are we doing?” 

“Here’s the thing.” Jack dropped onto the sofa behind him with a heavy flump. “You've been at school all day. I've been at the stable. You're going to Bozer’s soon. If we don’t do something about it today will have gone past with us hardly having talked to each other.” 

When Jack didn’t explain any further Mac raised his eyebrows. “And you yelled about a fire because...?” he prompted. 

“Cause I figured we should take a moment to catch up. I was thinking of calling our little get together a ‘Campfire’.” Jack held up his hands and dramatically spread them apart like he was pitching a movie idea to a top producer. “Or maybe a huddle. Or a debrief. I don’t know yet. I think we should try different names on for size and see what fits.” 

“I like Campfire.” Mac dropped onto the sofa beside Jack and looked at him expectantly. 

Jack liked that name too. He had good memories of him and his son sleeping under the stars together with a fire lighting their camp and keeping them warm. Being in the wilderness with Mac had meant that the fire had been lit in record time leaving them with lots of chances for father/son bonding that didn’t end in aching arms after hours of rubbing sticks together. 

“So, Mac,” Jack sat back, interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on his stomach. “Tell me about your day – did you learn anything new at school?” 

“Tia Wickham, one of the popular girls, broke up with her boyfriend and everyone is saying that she’s started dating the captain of the girls’ volleyball team.” 

“Oh.” Jack processed that. He scratched the stubble on his chin. “I was expecting you to tell me something sciencey.” Nothing like that had ever happened when Jack had been at school. He definitely would have remembered. “But good for Tia Wickham if that’s true. Love is love after all.” 

“Exactly.” Mac nodded. 

“Anything else?” 

“They served something new in the cafeteria today and no one knew what it was. It was a kind of white sauce with weird lumpy stuff in,” Mac’s top lip curled in disgust. "No one dared eat it so and there was a full vat of it left at the end of lunch time. The staff didn’t look happy.” 

“You know you’re going to get it served to you in wraps on Monday don’t you?” Jack thought back to the mystery meats that had made up his own school lunches. “Or with potatoes.” 

“Yeah, Bozer thinks it might get put into a pie.” 

Jack grinned. “So I’m guessing you wanna take packed lunches with you next week?” 

“I think so yes. I don’t want to try a lump pie, lumps in a wrap or lumps on rice.” Mac pulled a face again. “How was your day? What happened at the stable?” 

Jack thought for a second. “Mrs B did a perfect set of jumps today. I don’t know who was more pleased, her or Pepper. She sends her love by the way. Mrs B that is, not Pepper, although she probably would if she could.” 

“Tell her ‘hi’ back.” 

“Will do. Crosby slept for pretty much the whole day and Bronte Feeds messed up their order again.” 

“Again?” 

“Again. Then I had to have a long conversation with a nice but confused gal about how nobody on God’s green Earth would order nine grams of oats. And that was my day” 

“Your day sounds nice and annoying at the same time.” 

“So does yours. Yours had more lumps and less being put on hold while someone talks to the manager than mine.” Bronte Feeds’ hold music had been stuck in Jack’s head all afternoon. At one point he’d shouted, ‘if my call is so important to you why can’t you just pick up the phone and talk to me!’ so loud he thinks he might have scared the horses. Jack sat back and regarded his son, “So what are you and Bozer planning on doing? Hanging out?” 

“I guess so.” Mac shrugged. “His mom is going to be at work so we’ll probably play video games and stuff. I think he has a script that he’s been working on that he wants to show me.” 

“Do people still say hang out?” Jack asked, thinking of some of the words he’d heard teenagers use during their lessons at the stable. “Or is there some new Generation Z thing that y’all say? I can’t keep up with all these new words. I still don’t really understand what ‘yeet’ means.” 

“I think people still say ‘hang out’ Jack, it’s fine,” Mac said. “And I wouldn’t really worry about what ‘yeet’ means, it doesn’t matter.” 

“Well that reassuring to know, son,” Jack said. 

  


Jack had lived on his own before he’d met Mac. He shared his living space too, crammed into barracks among the press of uniformed bodies where he’d longed for privacy and with a roommate who’d leave coffee mugs under his bed to develop colonies of mould that looked like brand new life forms. He’d only ever lived in his current home with Mac and he had been in the house without Mac since they’d moved in of course but that evening their home felt unusually quiet and empty. 

Mac didn’t take up that much space and he wasn’t that loud - occasional explosions notwithstanding - but he was another body in the house, another heartbeat, and when he wasn’t there it was like something was missing. 

Diane had told Jack a story about the time she’d announced, ‘Look! A fire engine!’ to a carful of adults during a rare night out when Riley had been a toddler. She was so used to Riley being with her that she’d reacted to the flashing lights and sirens without thinking. Jack could empathise. He’d been aimlessly pottering around the house since Mac left it and the third time he found himself holding the fridge door open and staring into it’s chilly depths he realised that he needed to stop looking for something because he hadn’t lost anything. Mac wasn’t in the house but Jack was still aware of him, like his absence carried weight. Jack had sole possession of the remote control and the full expanse of the sofa to enjoy. And that was nice. But Mac wasn’t _there_ and Jack had already set the DVR to record two TV shows he thought his son would be interested in. 

When he took Mac into his home and made them a family Jack had thought about how to make Mac feel at home, about what he’d have to do to make sure the adoption was finalised so Mac would stay with him and about how to live their lives together as best they could, but he’d never thought about what it would be like when Mac wasn’t with him. And not just out at a friend’s. His son would be in college before long. Before long he’d be starting his adult life. 

Jack fetched himself a beer from the fridge. He took a deep pull from the bottle then belched with long, loud satisfaction and didn’t say excuse me because there was no one there to say it to. He settled himself comfortably on the sofa, had another beer and ate more chips than he needed to, watched TV for a while then went to bed because what else was there to do? Mac had his key and would make his own way home in the morning, and even if he’d been due to come home that night he kept telling Jack that he didn’t need to wait up for him. 

“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to come home then go to sleep.” Mac had pointed out. “You’ll only fall asleep on the sofa while you’re waiting for me so you may as well be in bed.” 

“But what if you need something?” Jack had asked. 

“I’ll come and get you.” 

“But what if you need something but you don’t know you need something and you need me to tell you that you need something before I can give it to you.” 

A wrinkle had developed between Mac’s eyebrows as he’d thought that through. “You could tell me in the morning?” he offered. 

“But what if it’s urgent?” 

“If I need something so badly I need you urgently I’d know that I needed something so I’d know to wake you up and tell you that I needed something.” 

That conversation had confused both of them and Mac hadn’t brought up the subject of Jack waiting up for him again

Jack settled himself in bed, read a chapter of his story, closed his book, turned out his lamp and lay listening to the empty darkness until he drifted off to sleep. 

He was woken by his phone ringing. Jack grabbed it and had mumbled, “Mac? Are you okay?” into it before he’d finished opening his eyes. 

“Jack, everything’s okay,” Bozer’s mom’s voice told him, “Don’t worry.” 

Jack sat up and grunted a questioning noise into his phone. 

“It’s just the boys have, well,” That ‘well’ carried a wealth of maternal disapproval, “My son managed to get hold of a bottle of scotch and both our boys have worked their way through a lot of it and now they’re...” 

“Blasted?” Jack offered, understanding dawning through the sleepy fug in his mind. 

“I was going to say ‘worse for wear’ but your word is probably more accurate.” Bozer’s mom said, “I’m going to drive Mac home, I thought you’d like a heads up.” 

“Great, thanks.” Jack scrubbed at his eyes, “It’s not great, of course, but thanks.” 

“I know what you mean,” Bozer’s mom chuckled, a deep, dry sound that made Jack think that while Bozer’s mom was calm but that didn’t mean she was fine with what had happened or that there wouldn’t be serious consequences for Bozer. Jack almost felt sorry for the kid. 

“I’ll see you soon then,” Jack said, turning on his bedroom light and kicking the covers off his legs. 

“See you soon.” Bozer’s mom hung up and Jack dropped his phone on the bed and looked at the clock. It was late, almost early morning, and the sigh Jack let out as he stumbled out of his bedroom was heartfelt, resigned and not amused exactly, but intrigued. 

So Mac had snuck a drink – or a lot of drinks – while he was still too young to. Jack had done that when he’d been Mac’s age. He figured lots of people did, so it wasn’t impossible that Mac would do it too but Jack was surprised. He thought back to the skinny fifteen year old who had moved into his apartment all that time ago. That kid, shy, scared, unsure and on edge would never have touched alcohol. He’d looked uncertainly at the beers Jack had drunk on the few occasions he’d had one back then and he would never have dared to do anything he knew he wasn’t supposed to. Yet here Mac was now, underage and steaming after a night with a buddy. 

The linoleum on the kitchen floor was cold against Jack’s feet as he stood debating turning on the coffee machine. If he had any caffeine he’d never fall back to sleep and Mac was probably better off with just water to hydrate him. Water would be the best thing to offset the inevitable hangover the morning would bring. Both Jack and Mac need to brace themselves for that. Jack winced at the thought of his own first hangover. It had been a monster. He remembered being sure he was permanently broken and swearing that he would never touch anything stronger than Kool-Aid again. 

Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest and rested against the kitchen counter as he waited for Bozer’s mom. He thought about texting his mom, ‘Guess what’s happening, Ma!’ She’d enjoy needling him about karma and how it was his turn to deal with an inebriated teenager. Jack didn’t remember much about that one night with the jello shots during his senior year but his mom did. The clean-up from that incident hadn’t been too bad since the full effects of the boozy jello had hit him when he’d been outside but he had needed help getting up the stairs and into bed. He’d been taller than his mom at seventeen. Heavier too. And in her stories about that evening his mom insisted that he’d been singing the chorus of the classic Dolly Parton / Kenny Rogers duet Islands in the Stream over and over with feeling. Getting him into his room must have been a struggle. 

The beams of a set of headlights cut through the dark and the engine of Bozer’s mom’s car grumbled as she pulled up outside the house. Jack went to the door, feeling his momma and legions of other parents at his shoulder as his drunk teenager arrived home bearing the consequences of his actions. 

Mac was sat in the passenger seat of Bozer’s mom’s car. He was unnaturally still and had the careful posture of the profoundly intoxicated trying to pretend that they were fine. Jack stepped out into the chill of the night as Mac opened the passenger side door and climbed out of the car with exaggerated care. 

“Son?” Jack said, standing in front of Mac. 

Mac squinted up at Jack, swaying gently from side to side, and let out a wet gust of breath. 

“He’s all yours,” Bozer’s mom called, “I’ve got my own at home to deal with.” They smiled and nodded at each other, their eyes meeting in a bond of parental understanding. 

“Good luck,” Jack told her and raised a hand in farewell. 

“You too.” Bozer’s mom returned Jack’s salute and pulled away into the night. Jack watched her red rear lights disappear then turned to his son. Mac hadn’t moved. He was blinking slowly and looked like he was concentrating hard on staying upright. “Let’s go in and get you some water,” Jack said. He put a hand between Mac’s shoulders and gently nudged him forwards. 

Mac walked into the house with slow precision like he was negotiating his way across the deck of a ship being tossed by a stormy sea. When Mac and Jack got inside, after Mac had lifted his foot high enough to reach over a doorstep that was two feet high, Mac held out a hand, running it along the wall as an aid to vestibular stability. 

“Take your next right, Scotch on the Rocks,” Jack directed, “head on into the kitchen.” Jack steered Mac over to lean against a kitchen counter. “Wait here, Moonshine,” he said, pouring Mac a glass of water and handed it over, “Drink some of this.” 

Mac took the glass and sipped at the water, looking grateful to have been given something to do. He smelled of liquor and breath mints, his eyes were watery and unfocused and his plaid shirt untucked and rumpled. It was probably just how Jack had looked the times he’d tried to sneak into the house without waking his parents after doing things he shouldn’t have. Jack was tempted to snap a picture for the fridge – he knew just the spot for it – but grabbing his phone and asking Mac to smile would break the mood of judgement edged curiosity and authoritative care he wanted to embody. 

Mac listed ever so slightly to the left and looked up at Jack with mild confusion between sips of water. Jack rustled up a stern expression and leaned against the counter opposite Mac. 

“So...?” Jack dropped the question into the room and let it sit in silence, heavy and demanding. 

“Bozer’s writing a script,” Mac slurred, curling his hand round the glass of water and rested it against his chest, “his characters are going to get drunk so he wanted to do some research.” 

“He couldn’t have Googled it or just made something up? He’s never experienced an alien invasion but he still managed to write a script about that.” Jack had never done an Internet search on ‘What is being drunk like?’ but he might have to later just to see what results came up. 

“Uh uh,” Mac shook his head sending his hair flopping from side to side, he stopped, reeling, after only two shakes, “he likes his scripts to have veris...verisa...verrrr…um... truthfuliness.” 

“And he needed you to get drunk with him?” 

“Yep.” Mac nodded, “He asked me to have drinks with him too so he could have data from a different prescriptive.” 

“A different perspective?” 

“Yeah, that one.” Mac pointed clumsily at Jack with his free hand. 

“I see.” Jack did. If anyone was going to down a bottle of scotch to record what getting sozzled felt like it was his son and his best friend. “So what did the two of you do in your fact finding mission? Make prank phone calls? Play spin the bottle?” 

“No!” Mac drawled out in a high tone of outrage. 

Jack held up his hands, palms facing outwards. “Sorry, Sir-Drinks-a-Lot, I didn’t mean to insult your delicate sensibilities.” 

“We talked and laughed about stuff, Bozer tried to make notes on his laptop but said that typing made his head feel bad. We ate ham straight out of the packet. It tasted good.” 

“You kids really know how to party,” Jack said. Mac shrugged, completely missing his sarcasm. “Did Bozer get what he needed?” 

“Dunno.” Mac’s face scrunched up as he thought. “Maybe.” 

“And at any point during this whole boozy adventure,” Jack asked, getting to the pertinent part of the conversation, “did either of you worry about being underage?” 

“I,” Mac let out a sigh so deep he seemed to deflate, buckling before Jack’s eyes, “I didn’t want to at first. I wasn’t going to. I smelled it, the scotch,” A pause. Jack watched his son go into his head, into the layers of knowledge, ideas and memories kept there, “it smelled like him.” 

“Like James?” It couldn’t be anyone else but Jack said the name anyway. If they were going to have this conversation they would have to do it with everything laid open. It couldn’t be done with half-truths and guesses. 

Mac gave a tiny nod. 

Jack didn’t know what to say. Foolish teenage decisions made by foolish teenagers were one thing. He’d been there. Plumbed depths of foolishness never reached before by man nor beast according to his momma. He remembered it. Remembered being young and cocky and hungry and ready and brave and unsure and wanting, wanting something, something new and other that he couldn’t picture but was certain he’d recognise when he felt it in his hands. Jack figured that was universal, that feeling of wanting that came with being Mac’s age. He knew how to talk about that. He’d been looking forward to it. He had hard won wisdom to share and advice to offer. (Don’t argue with the designated driver. If something looks too good to be true it is too good to be true. When in doubt go for the one in the middle.) But this. After all the time they’d been together being confronted with Mac’s memories of James could still shake Jack in a place his experience and hard won serenity couldn’t help calm. 

“It smelled like what he used to drink. It would be on his breath sometimes when he was yelling.” Mac continued, the knuckles of his hand paling as his grip on the glass tightened. “And I felt sick. I didn’t want the bottle near me. But then I thought _pffft,_ ”Mac blew a raspberry and threw his arms out wide, not noticing the water spraying out of the glass in his hand, “he’s not going to stop me. He doesn’t get to stop me anymore and...just...fuck him.” 

Mac’s eyes widened as he realised what he’d said. He stared at Jack in horror. 

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Jack said, “That’s how I feel about him too.” 

“So I drank everything in the glass Bozer gave me then I kept on drinking drinking drinking.” 

Jack had tried to lose himself in a bottle exactly three times. The first time was when he was not much older than Mac. He’d been angry and scared and angry about feeling scared. The second time had been over a woman it never would have worked with but knowing that hadn’t stopped him hoping, and the third time he’d known the liquor would only make things worse but he’d drunk it all anyway. He’d learnt after that third time that the aftermath of a skinful of amber liquid wasn’t worth the brief feeling of release knocking back shot after shot of it brought. 

“I’m not a bad kid am I?” Mac asked, apropos to nothing. He drew himself up to stand a little straighter, his balance wavering but his intent earnest. “Maybe not today with the drinking and stuff but the rest of the time, I’m not a bad kid?” 

“No,” Jack replied, letting Mac lead the conversation, not sure where it was going. 

“I don’t skip school or do drugs or-” Mac flapped his empty hand around as he searched for another example of a bad kid activity, “steal cars.” 

“The fact that you struggled to think of three bad things just shows what a bad kid you aren’t, son,” Jack said. 

“I’m a pretty good kid then?” Mac said, swaying forwards, keen to prove his point. 

“Out of all the millions of teenage boys in the world you’re my favourite.” 

“Then why did he..? You never...” Mac took a deep swallow from his almost empty glass of water then put it down heavily on the counter behind him. “I'm not any different now to how I was then. Not really. I’m a good, ordinary kid now and I was a good, ordinary kid then, right?” 

“Yeah, but also no,” Jack said. “You’re ordinary but you’re way more than just any old kid to me, you’re a really great kid, like I said, you’re my favourite out of all the teenage boys in the whole world.” 

“I’m not a delinquent or a mutant or a terrible...a terrible...” Mac thought. Looked lost. And for the first time ever Jack watched as Mac’s brain gave him absolutely nothing to work with, “...thing?” 

“Nope,” Jack answered evenly, “If you were a shapeshifting bog monster with dark powers I would have noticed by now.” 

“I was just a kid,” Mac said. “So why couldn’t he just be my dad?” 

They say that when you become a parent you spend months and months encouraging your child to speak then regret that as soon as the questions start. Why? Why is the sky blue? Why is water wet? Why does the grass grow? Why do people die? Why aren’t things fair? Jack would have given anything to have been asked one of those questions. He’d take an embarrassing question about the birds and the bees for five hundred, Alex, because he had no answer for what Mac had just asked him. 

Jack licked his lips to moisten them, “Son...” 

“When my mom died I just wanted my dad,” Mac said. “He didn’t have to do anything special, he could have just hugged me and told me he missed her too but everything would be okay but he never did. He was never kind. He was never really there after she died.” 

Mac rubbed his nose with the back of one hand. The clumsy, loping looseness Mac had arrived home with had twisted when the conversation turned to James. His lanky limbs were tense and drawn, he looked barbed and brittle. 

“You should have had that, I’m sorry you didn’t ever get it,” Jack said. 

“He never did any dad stuff, not like you and everyone else’s dad. He never told me he loved me without making it sound bad. You’ve never said,” Mac lowered his voice to a sharp snarl and curled up his lip into a show of dismissive disgust, “’I love you, Angus, but I’m sick of having to listen to you apologise, stop wasting my time,’ or ‘crying won’t fix anything, Angus, I love you but you are worthless to me right now.’ You say you love me all the time and you don’t mean anything else.” 

“I do. Because it’s true.” Jack pushed himself away from the counter and took a step forward, moving slowly, the way he would approach a frightened horse. 

“I hate him.” Mac spat, his voice loaded with venom. Jack had wondered when Mac would grow to understand how angry he was about his past. When he’d come to live with Jack he’d been scared and sad, shocked and overwhelmed by the traumas of his childhood, but Jack had known a day would come when his son would become aware of how angry he was. With his father, with the wrongness of what he’d been through, with the unfairness that so many other people had loving parents while he’d ended up with one who seemed incapable of love or even the smallest touch of humanity. 

“I have for a long time but I didn’t know it,” Mac continued. Vehement. “But I do. I hate him.” 

“I know, kiddo,” Jack stepped forward again and reached out to rest his hand on the back of Mac’s head, pushing his fingers into unkempt blond hair, “and that’s okay.” 

This was one of the things Jack had hoped Mac would talk to Doctor Amanda about. He’d hoped she would know how to help Mac unpick the threads of his experiences and make as much sense of them as he could, finding a way to lay them down somewhere they wouldn’t trip him up when no sense could be made. 

“He’s a bastard,” Mac growled, his features twisted with ire, “I hope wherever he is he’s miserable. I hope he’s in pain. I hope he burns in hell. And-” Blue eyes full of a sadness Jack sometimes worried he could never heal looked up into Jack’s. “Why wasn’t he my dad?” 

“Aw, kiddo.” Jack pulled Mac’s head down so that his forehead rested on his shoulder. 

“I just wanted my dad. Why wouldn’t he be my dad?” Mac sniffled. Jack’s hand drew soothing circles over his heaving back. 

“I don’t know, son. He was damaged maybe, or broken. Whatever it was it was nothing to do with you.” 

“I love you though,” Mac mumbled in a gust of hot breath into Jack’s shoulder. 

“I love you too, kiddo.” 

“No, I mean I properly love you.” Mac’s arms wound around Jack’s waist and held on tight. “Not how some people just say it when they say goodbye, I mean it like, like really and really really.” 

“I know you mean it. I do too.” 

Mac trembled a little in Jack’s arms. “You’re the best dad ever. In the whole world,” he said. “If you weren’t my dad I think...” Mac tightened his grip, squashing him and Jack even closer together. 

“I am your dad. And you’re my son. And we’re going to be okay.” An armful of drunken, emotional, sincere teenage boy was nice but awkward to hold. “Kiddo?” Jack nudged at the jumble of unstable angles that was his son. 

Mac let out a sound that if it was a word would have been something like ‘mumpft’. 

“Mac,” Jack nudged him again, “Do you want to drink some more water?” 

Mac shook his head, scuffing his hair against Jack’s robe. 

“You should try to, it’ll help.” 

“No. I just want to stay like this.” 

“You sure? You’ll wish you had in the morning.” 

Mac didn’t respond. He’d settle in against Jack and his breathing was starting to slow. 

“Hey, Whiskey Galore?” Jack prodded gently at Mac’s ribs, “Are you with me?” 

The only reply Jack got was a drowsy huff. 

“I think we should get you into bed, you can’t sleep standing up like Crosby, come on.” Jack tried to wiggle himself free of Mac’s hold but his son was persistent and didn’t let go. “Okay then,” Jack sighed at the ridiculousness of what he was about to do, “we’re going to have to improvise.” 

He stepped backwards and Mac followed him, so Jack stepped backwards again and managed to back out of the kitchen leading Mac with him like some kind of push me-pull you. Negotiating the stairs was a challenge. Mac either trusted Jack to get them to the top safely or didn’t really realise what was going on but he let Jack lead them up and along until they were working their way through his bedroom door. 

“This is your stop, Wine O’clock,” Jack said as he led Mac over to his bed. He tipped himself sideways until Mac slipped out of his arms and landed with a bounce on his mattress. 

Jack pulled Mac’s shoes off then dragged the covers out from under his sprawled body. Mac was beyond getting changed into his pyjamas so Jack covered him over with his blankets. 

“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.” Jack jogged down to the kitchen to fetch Mac a fresh glass of water and he got back upstairs to find that his son hadn’t moved from the ungainly heap he’d landed on his bed in. “I’ve brought you some water,” Jack put the glass on Mac’s bedside table, “you should get some sleep.” 

Mac opened one eye and looked up at Jack. “Okay. Love you.” 

“I love you too, son.” Jack reached out and lay a hand against Mac’s cheek. 

“Completely,” Mac slurred. 

“Forever,” Jack added.

“No matter...” Mac’s eyes flickered and he tumbled into sleep. 

“No matter what.” Jack finished for him. 

Jack stood and watched his son. He wondered if his momma had done the same thing when she’d finally managed to haul him into bed all those years ago. He thought of her straightening his covers, smoothing his hair, rolling her eyes and sneaking out of his bedroom and into her own. He wondered what he’d told her when the alcohol in his blood had lowered his inhibitions. 

Jack left Mac’s bedroom door open and then his own. With the doors wide Jack would hear if his son needed him. The morning after the night before was due to kick in and Mac was about to be introduced to a whole new world of regret and splitting headaches. Jack pulled his robe off and climbed into bed wondering if Bozer would put anything about that in his script. 

_Character A: My head hurts._

_Character B: I feel sick._

_Both characters lie down, groaning_

_End Scene_

Jack rolled onto his back and stared up at his dark ceiling thinking over the greatest hits of his own hangovers. The pounding head, the churning guts, the shivers, the weighty feeling of despondency and emptiness. Poor Mac had a difficult day ahead of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word Mac is trying to say – verisimilitude - is a word I love and one I sometimes have to think about before I try to say it even when I’m sober. 


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of running footsteps woke Jack. Rapid footfalls thudding in his son’s room marked Mac’s dash from his bed to his bathroom. Jack winced in sympathy. He thought about going to check on Mac but then he remembered his own first hangover. He remembered hanging over the toilet with his stomach rebelling at the amount of alcohol it had been made to digest, his head throbbing, wishing the ground would open up and devour him or lightening would strike him because at least then his torment would end. Teenage Jack wouldn’t have wanted a witness to his messy humiliation and adult Jack was sure Mac wouldn’t want one either. There were times when you needed to wallow in your own misery in peace. 

Jack’s bedroom was full of the grey of not yet dawn and he was warm and groggy under his duvet. He scratched at his stubbly cheek blearily, his head thick with the thundercloud feeling of interrupted sleep. He stared at the light spilling through the crack in his open door and listened until he heard the slow dragging steps of his son making his way back to bed and the groan as he flopped onto his mattress. When he was certain Mac was safely tucked up again Jack closed his eyes. 

The Four Meter Bathroom Sprint was performed another two times before Jack decided to start his day. The clock next to his bed told him that while he shouldn’t expect his son to surface for a while it was time for the non-hung over people in the house to have coffee. He dragged himself out of bed and looked in on Mac on his way down stairs. 

The light from the painted stars on the ceiling of Mac’s room had faded and Jack waited until his eyes adjusted to the gloom in the room before he took a peek at his son. When he did he found him buried under his duvet fast sleep, green grey of shade and haggard of aspect. Jack refilled the water glass beside Mac's bed then cracked the window open to let fresh air in to chase away the lingering stale smell of alcohol. He padded down the stairs feeling a sense of Deja Vu to the night before. His feet curled at the cold kitchen floor again - he always balked at the thought that he should get slippers, surely slippers were something grandpas wore – and this time he did turn the coffee machine on. 

There was no evidence of what had taken place night before in the kitchen. Everything was neatly where it should have been and the water Mac had spilled had long since dried. The night before had happened though, complete with Mac getting blind drunk and having to be poured into bed and the conversation about James. And Jack didn’t know how to deal with any of it. He’d always hoped when he had a talk with Mac about underage drinking it would involve him telling his son about some of the more unpleasant details of his own teenage exploits adding, ‘and you’re not going to do anything like that are you?’ at the end. The Mac he imagined listening to that would always nod seriously and not take as much of a sniff of a beer until his twenty first birthday. 

Which just went to show that when Jack was wrong he was really, really wrong. Still, he thought, scouting out the fridge for breakfast, if you’re going to do it do it in style. 

Jack browsed in the cupboard for the largest mug and filled it with as much coffee as he dared without risking slopping the burning liquid onto his hand when he moved it. He carried his drink and one of the muffins his mom had sent in her last care package with him into the living room and settled on the rocking chair with his phone for a ‘breakfast date’. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled Diane. 

“Good morning,” Diane said when she answered, her voice rough and sleepy. Jack imagined her sitting at the end of her sofa wearing rumpled pyjamas and a dressing gown with a hot drink cradled in her hands just like he was. 

“Mornin’.” 

Work and everyday life took up a lot of space in their days so and Jack and Diane sometimes “shared” breakfast to try to make sure they took a little bit of time to be together, even if it was just having coffee and toast with each over the phone. 

“How are you this bright and breezy morning?” Diane asked, “Bright and breezy?” 

“Not yet,” Jack said and told Diane all about the night’s adventures. 

“And all that was for a script?” Diane laughed when Jack reached the end of his story. 

“That’s what I was told. They say that Bozer likes his stories to have truthfuliness.” 

“Well that makes sense then,” Diane deadpanned. 

Jack dropped his head back to rest it on the back of the sofa. He stared upwards without attention, focusing beyond the ceiling to the young man sleeping above him. “There’s a little too much reality here right now. I have a son with a very real hangover to deal with somehow and we’re going to have to have a really real conversation about the choices he made last night. I have no idea where to start.” 

Mac knew he’d made a bad decision. He’d known it when he’d made it. But his reason for choosing to do what he had were complicated. He wasn’t being dumb, or rebellious or reckless. Or he wasn’t being only those things. He was reacting to conditioning left by trauma. Jack didn’t know what to say to that. 

“I suppose it could have been worse,” Diane said. “Mac got drunk but he did it with a person he trusted in a safe place. He wasn’t at a party full of keg chugging idiots somewhere he’d never been before.” 

“You’ve just described my first year of college,” Jack joked. “You’re right though. His bad choice could have been much worse.” He put the last bite of muffin in his mouth and chewed it, thinking. 

“Some days having a smart dumb teenager is the best a parent can hope for.” 

Jack switched which ear he was holding his phone to. “I’m going to remind you about saying that the first time Riley pulls a crazy teenage stunt.” 

“When that happens it’s your turn to be the calm, reasonable one.” 

“It’s a deal,” Jack said. 

Diane told Jack about her day. She and Riley had spent a reasonable evening, they’d had dinner, watched a movie then had gone to bed. No midnight phone calls, no drama, no barnacle-like hugs. 

Jack heard Riley’s voice coming from Diane’s end of the phone. “Is Riles up now?” 

“She’s just appeared. In her Cookie Monster pyjamas with her hair everywhere.” 

“That sounds adorable.” 

“It is, don’t tell her I told you that she’d never forgive me.” 

“Your secret is safe with me,” Jack said, smiling. “I’ll let you go. Say good morning to Ri for me.” 

“I will. Bye Jack, have a good day. Love you.” 

“See you later, Diane. I love you too.” 

Jack hung up and took the final sip of his almost cold coffee then pulled himself up out of the chair and went up the stairs to check on Mac. He was asleep, still curled up in the same position he’d been in when Jack had last looked in on him looking like a puppy after a tough visit to the vets. 

Jack felt a little like that too. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that he felt like an old hound dog who’d been woken from his afternoon nap in a patch of sunlight. He took a long shower, standing with his eyes closed, hot water streaming over him, feeling the warmth sinking into him and easing the tense muscles in the back of his neck. When he dressed afterwards he felt fresher and brighter. Sometimes a hot drink and a hot shower went a long way in making things feel better. He’d have to recommend it to Mac when he surfaced. 

Jack went to put his head around the door of Mac’s room with bare feet and wet hair. “Kiddo?” he breathed into the still space. 

There was tiny shift under the covers of Mac’s bed. 

“Kiddo?” Jack walked into Mac’s room. “Knock, knock,” he said, tapping Mac’s duvet. 

A small voice came from under the covers. “’M sorry.” 

“I know you are, son.” Jack tapped on the duvet again. “You going to come out and say hello?” 

“Are you mad?” 

“Okay,” Jack sighed and lowered himself down to sit on the floor next to Mac’s bed. “It’s like this: I’m not thrilled about what happened last night. You’re underage, it’s illegal for you to be drinking alcohol.” 

The blankets covering Mac twitched. 

“I haven’t come to yell at you though. I’m here to see if you’re okay. Hey, Mr I Drank Canada Dry?” Jack lightly rapped his knuckles on Mac’s mattress. “Are you okay?” 

“Not really.” The muffled voice from under the blankets cracked with misery. 

“Can we maybe have this conversation face to face?” Jack asked. “I’m talking to sheets right now.” 

There was a silent moment of stillness, a resigned sigh and the duvet covering Mac flipped over and revealed his face. 

“Sorry.” Mac’s eyes were as wide as they could go in their sunken state. 

“Ah, kiddo.” Jack brushed a hand through the bird’s nest of Mac’s hair. “I know. I could give you a big speech about the risks of alcohol. I could tell you that it’s not all giggling and feeling confident. That it can be dangerous. That you have to understand your limits and be responsible for your safety but I’m thinking you’re learning a lot of what I would say in 3D and in living colour right now.” 

Mac gave a tiny nod. “I know I shouldn’t have drunk any of the scotch but it’s what a lot of people do. You did stuff like that at my age. I just wanted to feel the way other kids do.” A tear rolled out of one of Mac’s eyes and over his cheek, dripping off his nose and onto the pillow beneath his head. 

“Yeah I know,” Jack nodded, “You explained last night.” He ran his fingers through Mac’s hair again and Mac’s eyes flickered at the soothing sensation. “How much of last night do you remember?” 

“I remember getting into Bozer’s mom’s car so she could drive me home. Is she mad?” 

“I haven’t spoken to her since she dropped you off but I’m guessing she’s not happy.” 

“Ah.” Mac flinched awkwardly. “Maybe I should call her to say sorry.” 

“That might be a good idea, son.” 

“I remember you getting me a glass of water but everything else is fuzzy.” Mac looked up at Jack with a questions in his eyes, “I hugged you didn’t I? 

“You definitely did.” Jack was surprised he hadn’t been left with finger marks on his skin from Mac’s enthusiastic hold. 

Mac winced and bit his lip. “Did I do anything embarrassing?” 

“You were honest,” Jack said, because that was the truth. “You didn’t do anything you need to be ashamed of.” 

“Really?” Mac asked, “I didn’t do anything bad?” 

“No. There was nothing wrong with anything you did or said when you got home.” 

“Oh. Good.” 

“Me and you are going to have a conversation about what happened last night,” Jack said. “Just not now. We’ll leave it for when you don’t feel like a rusty saw is trying to fight it’s way out of your skull.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Sorry,” Mac said again. 

“I talked to Diane earlier,” Jack shuffled to get more comfortable, “and she said something interesting.” Jack gently pushed his fingers back into Mac’s hair, regarding his son’s pale face thoughtfully. “She said that what you did could have been much worse. You did a dumb thing but at least you didn’t do it in the dumbest of ways. I’m a lot less mad now than I would have been if I’d got a phone call from you saying you were stuck somewhere, or if I’d got a call from the Sheriff’s office saying you were drying out in the cells or had been in an accident.” 

“I wouldn’t ever drink and drive,” Mac said. “You said I should never get into a car if the person driving it has been drinking, even if...” 

“Even if the person driving is you.” Jack finished for him. “My daddy told me that and I’ve never gone against it.” Jack fussed with Mac’s sheets, arranging them so they covered him up to his chin. “I’ve been thinking about when you first came home to me. You were all skin and bones and nervousness, you wouldn’t have said boo to a moose back then.” 

Something flickered in Mac’s expression. 

“You got something to say about my turn of phrase there, Tequila Sunrise?” 

Mac shook his head. “No, sir.” 

“Good. But yeah, when you first moved in with me little old you was as shy and skittish as a colt but now here you are, making stupid, rule breaking decisions. I’m not happy about what happened but I’m finding that I’m maybe a teeny bit happy about what happened.” 

Mac frowned, confused. “You’re happy I broke the rules?” 

“I’m happy that you didn’t stick to the rules because you were scared of what would happen to you if you didn’t.” 

“I haven’t thought about that.” Mac looked genuinely surprised, Jack saw a light of understanding dawning in his bloodshot eyes. 

Mac hadn’t thought about not being afraid, he just hadn’t been afraid. Jack hadn’t seen Mac learn to walk or say his first words but he’d witnessed this new milestone. He couldn’t have been prouder. 

“You should talk to Doctor Amanda about last night. Tell her all about what you did and how you felt, I bet she’d be interested.” She could help Mac really understand why he’d made the decision he had and what that meant for him. And another adult having the ‘underage drinking is bad’ conversation with Mac couldn’t hurt. 

“I will,” Mac said. He blinked slowly, eyes heavy and shadowed. 

“Do you want to go back to sleep now?” Jack asked. Mac’s gaze was sliding away from him and he was sinking back into his mattress. 

“I think so.” 

“Would you like me to bring you a coffee up?” 

“Um,” Mac’s brow puckered as he tried to sort through the yammering mess of things his body was yelling at him, “I don’t know.” 

“How about I bring you one and it’s there if you want it?” Jack offered. 

“Yeah, please.” 

Jack made himself and Mac a mug of coffee and brought Mac’s up to his bedroom. By the time he got back upstairs Mac was fast asleep again, his duvet tucked around his shoulders, snoring a little. 

Jack found quiet things to do while Mac slept. He considered tinkering with the truck’s engine but decided to leave that particular job for when he and Mac had their Conversation (with a capital C) about drinking and about the anger he was feeling that he had to be intoxicated to express. Traditionally Jack and Mac’s Dalton Family Conversations went better when they were both doing something as they talked. Having busy hands helped Mac relax and open up, as if giving the whirling, reaching part of his brain something to do distracted it enough to let the rest of his thoughts flow. 

Eventually, Mac appeared in the kitchen. He looked almost human. 

“If it isn’t the Creature from the Blitzed Lagoon,” Jack said when his son shuffled in. His hair was still a disaster, his skin pallid and his eyes were thin, unfocused slits but he looked less nauseated than he had before. And he was upright. So that was an improvement. 

“Hey,” Mac mumbled. He looked over at the fridge like he couldn’t quite remember what it was for. 

“Go and sit down,” Jack took sympathy on his son and shooed him towards the sofa. “I’ll get you a drink and something to eat.” 

Mac gave Jack an uncertain look. 

“Just coffee and toast. You’ll feel better, trust me.” 

Mac staggered away and Jack made the meagre meal and brought it over to where Mac had curled himself into a hoodie swathed lump of wretchedness on the couch. 

“Here,” Jack put the food on the table in front of Mac, “Eat that, Picnic at Hungover Rock, you’ll feel better.” 

Mac took a delicate nibble of the slice of toast. “I sent Bozer a text,” he said after he’d sipped his coffee. 

“How is he?” Jack asked. 

“As dramatic as ever. The reply he sent to me said ‘Get help’ and then had six emoji’s with green faces. 

Jack chuckled. “Only six emoji’s? I would have expected more from Bozer.” 

“Maybe he couldn’t keep his eyes open for long enough to type any more.” Mac put his empty plate down and turned so he was sat folded up on the sofa, leaning sideways against it’s back with his feet on the cushions. He held his mug in both hands. Jack had given him his coffee in his World’s Best Dad mug and Mac ran his thumb over and over the writing near the rim. “Jack,” he said. 

“Yes, buddy?” Jack knew his son well enough to know that his solemnness meant something important was coming. 

“I won’t do it again.” 

Jack let out a snort. “Everyone says that when they feel the way you do right now. I’ve sworn that I’d never touch a drop of the hard stuff again more than once when I’ve been in your position.” 

“Not like that. I mean,” Mac took a sip of coffee like he was fortifying himself, “I mean drinking alcohol when I shouldn’t be.” 

“That’s good. That’s what I want to hear. I have a couple of questions though,” Jack said, “Tell me, had you and Bozer planned your little Adventure in Scotch City before you went round to see him last night?” 

Mac shook his head. “No.” 

“So you didn’t lie to me when I asked you what you what the two of you were going to do together?” 

“I didn’t, I promise.” 

Jack believed him, “Okay. I’m pleased to hear that. At least you’re smart enough to choose not to do break that particular rule.” 

“But that’s the thing!” Mac blurted out, suddenly vehement and a little breathless. “Sometimes - all the time - it’s like because I’m smart I’m supposed to be perfect. Like everyone expects me to never be confused or do anything wrong. And that’s why, it was one of the reason why I…” Mac huddled further into his hoodie and rubbed harder against the letters on his mug like it was a talisman. “I get good scores in tests and know how to fix things but I’m still just a person. Sometimes I get things wrong and sometimes I don’t know stuff.” 

There was another truth that Mac had been holding in, with this new one being unleashed by the vulnerability of a hangover rather than the loss of inhibitions brought by alcohol. Okay, Jack thought. 

“What people expect that from you?” he asked, “Teachers?” 

Mac nodded. 

“Classmates? 

Mac nodded again. 

A silence grew. Jack let out a breath and slowly voiced the question with the answer that was probably what had Mac curled into a ball. “Me?” 

Mac gave the smallest shrug possible. “You’re always saying how proud you are of me for being a ‘genius’. What if I wasn’t?” 

“You’d still be you and I’d still be proud.” So more than one boundary had been tested by last night’s booze fest. Jack wondered just how much of all this Mac had been aware of when he’d taken his first sip. Tinkering with the truck might not be a big enough job to do while he and Mac had their Conversation, they might have to strip down and rebuild the whole engine. “How much I love you isn’t based on your IQ points. Which is just as well considering how many brain cells you’ll have killed off last night.” 

“What?” Mac looked alarmed. 

“Nothing, don’t worry.” Jack waved away Mac’s concern. “Listen, son, when we had our Campfire yesterday did I ask you to tell me about what you’d been up to or about what they’re doing over at CERN, hmm? I wanted to hear about you and your day with it’s volleyball players and lumpy cafeteria food not a bunch of smart stuff about a large hypo collider.” 

“I know that, it’s just that...” 

“Sometimes you worry that being smart is the only good thing about you?” Jack interpreted. 

Mac fixed his gaze on picture on the mug in his hand, rubbing his thumb over and over the picture on it’s side. “Doctor Amanda asked me if I thought that being clever was what I had to do to earn my place in the world.” 

“And do you?” 

Mac held his breath. Jack hoped his son would answer him honestly, he hoped the candour of the night before had started to open up something in him. “I guess I kind of do.” Mac said down to his lap. 

“Well if it helps,” Jack said, “you made the stupid decision to drink a bunch of scotch last night – and I bet it wasn’t the good stuff either, I bet it was probably some paint thinner Bozer managed to get hold of from somewhere – then you tried to pretend you were sober like I wouldn’t notice that you smelled like a brewery, staggered in here like a pirate who’d lost his peg leg and told me you’d just eaten ham straight out of the packet, and I still love you.” 

Mac gave Jack a watery smile. 

“You don’t have to pay your way with smarts, not in the world and certainly not in this house. You got wasted last night to research a script. Who does that?” Jack gestured like he was seeking divine intervention. “No one but a moron would do that! But you did it and I still love you. In fact,” Jack took the mug out of Mac’s hand and put it down on the table next to the sofa, “bring your idiotic self over here so I can hug you, you big dumb dummy from Dumbstown, Dumbsylvania.” 

Mac shuffled forwards and Jack gathered him into his arms, tucking Mac under his chin and squeezing him carefully, mindful that Mac would still be feeling delicate. 

“No more drinking like you’re trying to prove something,” Jack mumbled into Mac’s hair. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And no more drinking to fix something or to break something else,” Jack said. 

“I won’t.” 

“And next time Bozer has a question for a script search for the answers on the Internet, go to the library to find them or just make something up. Fiction is just made up stuff isn't it?” 

“It is.” 

“So there you go.” 

“I think Bozer might scrap that script and start a new one,” Mac said. 

“Hopefully one about some school friends who do their homework, drink milk and go to bed and 9 o’clock each night.” 

“Won’t that be a kind of boring movie?” 

“Not if there’s a natural disaster then a bank heist in it.” Jack winked. 

“You're right, that doesn’t sound boring now.” Mac’s voice held a smile. 

“I don’t know why you two both didn’t just ask me for help with your script in the first place,” Jack said loftily. 

“Maybe we will next time.” Mac shifted a little in Jack’s arms. “Jack,” he said, “Did you just tell me you love me by calling me an idiot?” 

“Yes I did, son. I’m glad you were paying attention.” 

“I love you too.” 

“I know,” Jack said. “The next time we do a Campfire I want you to tell me about the mistakes you made in the day and how many things you got wrong.” 

Mac huffed a laugh. “I will if you will” 

“I bet my mistakes will be bigger than yours.”

“Are you going to get competitive about mistakes?” 

Jack thought about that. “No, cause you could just mix the wrong chemicals together in chemistry class and melt half the school, I’ll never be able to compete with that.” 

“I don’t think I could melt the school,” Mac said. “I could maybe liquidise a table. But that’s it.” 

“That would still mean me getting a phone call from the Principal. I’m sure your school has a very strict policy on table melting.” 

“Are you sure?” Mac asked. “We’ve never had an assembly about it.” 

“There’ll be something in the school guidelines, it’ll be under something like section nine paragraph B: ‘and under no circumstances should a student ever cause a piece of furniture to become liquid.’ I bet if you look it’ll be there.” 

“I’ll try to remember that.” 

“The way I see it, Kiddo,” Jack said airily, “is that there are lots of ways to be smart and lots of ways to be foolish and people can be all of them at once.” 

“The only true wisdom is knowing that you know nothing,” Mac quoted, “That’s what Socrates said and he was one of the founders of Western philosophy so he knew what he was talking about.” 

“All we are is dust in the wind, dude.” Jack quoted back at Mac. 

Mac snorted. 

Jack squeezed his son a little tighter. Mac had flopped against him and he was holding up both of their weights. 

“How are you feeling now, Boozy McBoozeFace?” Jack asked. 

“A little better than before. I still feel like my head is exploding in slow motion though.” 

“That sounds messy.” 

Mac wiggled to burrow closer to Jack, “It feels messy.” 

There was a Conversation to look forward to in the days to come along with an apology to Bozer’s mom and the consequences of Mac actions to decide on. Jack didn’t know what they would be yet, he was going to take things one issue at a time and that was a problem for tomorrow’s Jack to deal with. Today’s Jack was going to hug his son, sit for a while longer and think about ways to show him that while he loved that he was clever that wasn’t all he loved about him, that mistakes were okay, encouraged even, that answers aren’t found in a bottle and that scotch is for sipping when you’re old enough to do so. Although Jack had a feeling Mac had worked those last two things out all by himself. 

“You’ll be fine in the morning, you’ll see,” Jack said. 

“Right now I feel like I’ll never be alright again.” Jack could almost feel Mac’s pout. 

Soon Jack would get Mac to drink some more water and eat some more food, a bowl of his momma's soup perhaps, and when Mac fell asleep again maybe he would snap that picture of the rumpled mess of his son for the fridge door. Maybe he would text his momma to tell her all about what had happened. And maybe he would ask her what he’d told her when he’d staggered home as young and drunk as Mac had been. It had been so long ago that Jack couldn’t remember exactly what truths had been haunting his teenage mind back then, though he suspected it had been something about being unsure, being frustrated and knowing that he wanted more but not knowing exactly what he wanted more of. 

“You feel like that now but it’ll pass, I promise. You trust me don’t you?” 

“Of course,” Mac said, “More than anyone.” 

A lump of emotion swelled in Jack throat. He coughed, chuckled unconvincingly and joked, “Cause I am wise in the ways of stuff?” 

“Yes,” Mac answered simply. 

“And cause I’m knowledgeable when it comes to things?” 

“That too,” Mac said, “But mostly because you’re my dad.” 

“That I am son.” Jack rested his chin on the head of the not a child but not an adult yet in his arms, the one who made him look back at the high school version of himself who’d roared through the world all those years ago, younger and brighter and smarter and dumber than he was now, the one who filled his home and his heart. “That I am.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote Jack uses, "all we are is dust in the wind dude," comes from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.


End file.
